


Many Lives We've Lived

by shadows_of_1832 (SaoirseVictoire)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon Era, F/M, Modern Era, One Shot, fic prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26075929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaoirseVictoire/pseuds/shadows_of_1832
Summary: Multiple one-shots and fic prompts from over the years. Canon-era and Modern-era mixed throughout.
Relationships: Enjolras/Éponine Thénardier
Comments: 16
Kudos: 9





	1. Introductions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Prompt from a Nonny on Tumblr: "ONE NIGHT STAND BEFORE THE FIRST DAY OF YOUR NEW JOB AND OOPS THAT WAS YOUR NEW BOSS YOU WERE SLEEPING WITH AU Enjonine pretty please? :)"

That’s it. That is the first and last time he allows Courfeyrac and Grantaire to drag him out of his apartment the night before a new job.

“ _You’ve been stressing about this all week_.” “ _You need to take your mind off it for awhile and relax_.” Their words repeat in his aching mind like a broken record, and he wonders what exactly allowed them to convince him it was a good idea.

* * *

_When he asked for water, he was met with exasperated sighs and rolled eyes. He only returned his companions a confused expression before Courfeyrac ordered shots for the three of them._

_He had promised himself he would drink just the one, to save himself from suffering a hangover on his first day. When Grantaire ordered another round, he hesitated before downing the second one as well._

_It was not long after that when Grantaire and Courfeyrac abandoned him to go talk to a couple of girls that had wandered into the establishment, leaving him alone and contemplating on whether or not he could sneak out without their notice. He scanned the bar, looking for possible exits. Exiting out the front would not be easy, given the fact that his friends were right next to it. From his seat, he could not tell if there was an exit in the back._

_A woman took a seat beside him at the bar, her mascara smeared around her eyes as she went through her phone. She looked so out of place in the dimly-lighted space, with her cranberry-colored dress and styled brunette hair. She had the appearance that she had dressed up for a special event before making her way to the bar, and the former must have not gone well, or else she would have probably never come to the latter in the first place._

_He heard her order a couple shots of whiskey and down them before he even had a chance to blink. Almost instantly, she asked the bartender for another, to just keep them coming. It was clear that she just wanted to take away the pain for the night and not worry about the consequences of tomorrow._

_He finally risked a few words with her after the fifth shot._

_“Rough night?”_

_She swirled the liquid in what was going to be her sixth before turning and narrowing her eyes at him. “Why does it concern you? Can’t a lady go out for a few drinks without question?”_

_“Yes, but—”_

_“You aren’t one to normally occupy a place like this, are you?” she asked before ordering a cocktail._

_Enjolras shook his head._

_“Let me guess, your girlfriend broke up with you, or boyfriend, for all I know. I won’t judge you for it.” the woman winked and downed her sixth shot. “Though I don’t understand why they’d dump you, pretty boy, unless they need their vision checked.”_

_“Nope.” he replied, before glancing back at Grantaire and Courfeyrac, who had mysteriously disappeared, as had the two girls. Great. “I came with a few friends.”_

_She took a look over his shoulder to see what he had may have been looking at. “They ditched you?”_

_He scanned the room again for them, but neither of them were to be seen. “By the looks of it, they have.”_

_She nodded before taking a small sip of her drink. “You’re alone then?”_

_“Apparently,” he answered before ordering a beer. “And you?”_

_“Break-up with the long-time boyfriend.”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“It isn’t your fault.” She swirled the drink in her glass. “I mean, simply because he told me to dress up tonight and said we were going to a high-end restaurant does not automatically mean he intends on proposing. It could mean he’s trying to break up with up you, but wants to do it nicely.”_

_“Oh.”_

_“It’s not like we’ve been going out for four years. Was I wrong to assume?”_

_“I can’t say.”_

_The conversation continued on for the next hour or so, as if the two of them had known each other for years. Previous relationships, how things were like for them growing up, and the list went on. As the conversation went on, so did the drinking._

_The following morning, he only remembered blurred snippets of what happened the previous night. The touching that was a bit too much for the bar, the calling for a cab, not being able to keep their hands off each other in the back of the cab, pressing her up against the wall the instant he unlocked his apartment door…he did not have to do much thinking to figure out what happened next (Not knowing her name only added to his guilt)._

_She was gone before he woke up, but based upon the scattering of his clothes on the floor and the faintly warm spot beside him in the bed, he had only just missed her._

* * *

Had he been stressing over the job all week? He knows that he did. His previous career had been cut short when there had been budget cuts, and being the youngest there, they went with seniority over who was being the most productive. However, this job was only temporary, taking over Cosette’s job as an administrative assistant while she was on maternity leave. Hopefully, though, he hopes he can find a more permanent position by the time she is ready to go back to work.

“Are you okay?” Cosette asks as she greets him at the door of the office building, her hand placed on her swollen stomach. “You look ill.”

“I’m fine,” he lies, trying not to squint from the sunlight’s glare before they head inside. Cosette, however, appears to see right through him.

“No, you’re not.” The usually-gentle woman looks him in the eye. “You went drinking last night, didn’t you?”

He reluctantly nods, the feeling of guilt returning to his stomach. Cosette had taken much time in convincing her boss to allow him to temporarily take over her position, and not only did it make him look unprofessional by showing up hungover on the first day, but any trust her boss had in her as well. Unfortunately, apologies would not be an easy fix to this situation.

“Oh, Enjolras…” she sighs, shaking her head. “I thought I could trust you not to pull a stunt like this…”

He takes a deep breath, his eyes taking interest with the floor. He hates how he disappointed her. “Honestly, this was not my intention.”

“Tell Marius to hold me back the next time I see Courfeyrac and Grantaire.” Cosette presses the button for the elevator. “I could try and explain you are not usually like this.”

The doors open for the elevator, allowing awkward silence to fill the space on their way up to the floor. When they reach it and exit the cramped space, Cosette begins to explain some of the policies that were in place, the tasks he was expected to do on a daily basis (sorting through files, answering calls, creating reports on the computer, and the like), where the stairs were in case of an emergency, and the location of the break room, before showing him his desk, which happened to be oh-so “conveniently” placed right next to the boss’ office.

He takes a look at the name beside the door, before he begins to wonder why the name “Eponine Jondrette” seems so familiar. After a few moments of thought, he brushes it off as someone who came up in conversation.

It doesn’t take too long for him to realize that was not entirely true.

Cosette knocks on the office door, announcing who it was before entering. A “come in” from the other side has Cosette opening the door a bit hesitantly, and he follows her, before realizing his mistake.

“You’re kidding,” he hears before seeing where it came from. Looking towards the direction of the sound, he sees a familiar brunette sitting behind the paper-cluttered desk, staring back at him in shock.

Cosette looks between the two of them in confusion, before raising her eyebrows in a mix of surprise and comprehension.

“So you two have met?” the blonde asks, only for the purpose of certainty.

“We have,” Eponine replies before she stands up from behind her desk and walks towards them. “Or am I mistaking you for someone else, Mr. Enjolras?”

He could not tell if that was his cue to lie and say he had not or to tell the truth for the sake of any sort of professionalism, and the expression on the brunette’s face did not provide any assistance in that matter.

“No, I do not think you are mistaken.” Enjolras decides to reply, reaching to shake her hand, and tries to figure out if the situation could be any more awkward. Eponine does not seem to be as bothered by the situation as he currently feels, and hopes he appears differently on the outside than he feels.

“Have you shown Mr. Enjolras the summary of his tasks while you are gone?” the brunette turns her attention to the expectant blonde.

“Yes, Eponine,” Cosette answers firmly. “I also have shown him the stairs in the case of an emergency and the break room. I have also called to his attention the company’s policies, and I assure you he will follow them to the word.”

“I hope so.” Eponine narrows his eyes at him, as if trying to figure out he was worth trusting. “I should expect that he also separates his personal life from his work?”

“Yes, Ms. Jondrette.”

“Then I believe we are all set here for the time being,” Eponine says with a curt nod. “It’s a pleasure to formally meet you, Mr. Enjolras.”

“Likewise.”


	2. To Read Between the Lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from @mariuspondmercy on Tumblr: Librarian/Avid Reader AU

He glances at the clock again, despite the fact that only a few minutes have passed since the last time he looked. His eyes then return to the pages of his textbook, having much to read before class the next day.

It isn’t that he hates his job. In fact, it’s just the opposite. However, since classes started up again, there is little time between his classes at the university and work that there is little time for him to read what needs to be read, jot down notes when necessary. Thankfully (if that would even be the right word to describe his situation), the library is almost always empty at this hour, and with the returned books properly returned to their place and the new ones cataloged, it gives him a bit of time for him to work on the mandatory reading that will be discussed in the morning.

He looks up at the sound of the bell above the door, signaling the arrival of one of the library’s most frequent visitors. He takes a moment to once again check the time. Nope, still five more minutes before he has to lock things up for the night.

The visitor appears to be in a hurry, perhaps having not realized the time and/or feeling relieved that he had not closed things up with the time being so close. He is not taken aback when a stack of five books are placed in front of him after removing them from her bag before she quickly makes her way to the shelves.

His eyes skim the titles as he checks them back in, recognizing them as ones that were checked out only a few days ago. With most people, he would be surprised, but not with her. A part of him is actually surprised that she had not returned the books yesterday.

“Alright. Just these.” the brunette sets down a stack of four books on the counter.

“Are you sure, Eponine?” he asks as he scans her library card, before beginning the process of checking out the books. He knows she’ll be back in a few days anyway.

“Yep.” she nods as she places the books in her bag, then making her way towards the door. “Same time Saturday?”

“I’ll be here.”

And then she’s gone.


	3. the paint is supposed to go where?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from @hihiyas: "The paint is supposed to go where?"

He is going to hate her for this; that she is sure of.

She already has her roommate involved in her “daily life” documentary for one of her film courses, which is more than enough to be asking of him. Not that he is fond of the situation, either, though he understands it’s for a class. (“Eponine, I’m studying. Does that camera _really_ need to be watching me the entire time?”)

But for her painting class, her professor has assigned a drip-style project that involves silhouettes, meaning someone has to lay down on the canvas while she drips paint on them and the surrounding canvas. And because the project was given last minute, she really only had one option.

Oh, the next few hours should be interesting.

“The paint is supposed to go _where_?” he asks after she explains the assignment to him.

“It’s not a matter of where it’s _supposed_ to go, but rather where it _will_ go,” she clarifies. “You’ve inadvertently created Pollock-style paintings before.”

“First of all, those were different circumstances.” He places his backpack onto the floor. “Second, I have ruined enough shirts from such circumstances.”

“Then you should have no problem finding one of those shirts and having it get covered in paint.”


	4. i wake your eyes with a kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from @viridescentlights (LearaBribage): "i wake your eyes with a kiss" 
> 
> May or may not fit within the "Rain and Ashes" series

Hues of orange rest upon aged wooden as she climbs out of her bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping blond across from hers; he needs what little rest he can get, knowing well of the nightmares from the desert they share. Her eyes drift to the knotted, pink skin that runs along his left hand and down his forearm, something he shields with long sleeves and gloves in the daylight. Every now and again she’ll catch him tracing the scar with his right hand as he stares out a window or sits to read a book; she wonders if he knows he does it.

She approaches the bed in silence. For once, he’s still, a sharp contrast to the tossing and turning she often hears in the middle of the night. His blond curls stick out every which way, with the hint of a smile on his face.

Oh, the burdens on his shoulders, how odd it seems for him to have a few moments of peace…

She leans down a presses a gentle kiss to his forehead, and the stone blue eyes drift open.

“Everything all right?” he murmurs, eyes narrowed from the sunlight.

“Yes,” she replies. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep; I’ll have some tea ready when you get up.”

“Mhm.” He reaches up and brushes a few strands of hair from her face. He pauses, looking into her eyes, as if studying them. 

She gets back to her feet.

His eyes blink a few times, then close halfway as she walks towards the door. “Wake me if the robin and the kestrel arrive early.”

“I will. Go back to sleep.” She closes the door behind her.


	5. “I can’t stand my own reflection.”/Victory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from @viridescentlights (LearaBribage): “I can’t stand my own reflection.”/Victory

The people’s cheers cry throughout the Parisian streets. From his window, Enjolras watches children dance with tricolor flags. Mothers smile as fathers raise the children on their shoulders. It’s a celebration, and all is peaceful.

But there’s those he can’t see. Those who even amidst this celebration and victory are still begging for a sous or some scraps, those who are likely huddled in a corner somewhere waiting for all the joy to die down, for things to return to a semblance of normalcy even with a shift in the government.

_Change takes time_ , he reminds himself. _They’ll be helped soon enough_.

_But not soon enough for some. And who’s to say even with the changes that occur, they’ll ever be helped?_

He reaches for the cane that sits by the bed, trying to put as little pressure on his right leg as he’s able; if he tore open the stitches again, Joly would never let him hear the end of it.

“You should not be out of bed yet,” the doctor had scolded. “It has not even been a week!”

That had been yesterday.

He glances out the window again. Just a few dawns ago, the street below had been littered in corpses, surrounded in rivers of blood belonging to National Guardsmen and common men alike. Bayonets scattered and bullets left forgotten behind broken windows.

Yet the people prevailed. He never thought he’d see that again after 1830, didn’t think he would just two years later.

Will things turn out as they hoped this time?

He recalls the fight of 1830 well, and the happiness and disappointment that later transpired. But the events of the past week are what remains fresh in his mind.

The execution he had performed on a man who had shot a harmless civilian. Shooting the artilleryman. Many others whose names he will never know and faces who have already blurred.

The loss of Prouvaire. The death of Gavroche. Other fallen brothers whose names he had never known, and probably never would.

Deaths on the battlefield happen, a fact one must accept when fighting such a war as they were. One does not pull the trigger without knowing the blood that will be on their hands, and the burden such an act may later carry.

He limps to the door, hissing when his foot touches the floor. He pauses by the standing mirror. Cuts cover his hands and forearms from grazing bullets and dodging bayonets. There’s a gash that runs from his cheek and halfway across his neck, shallow enough to not cause any major damage, and another that’s just along his hairline.

He’s survived, he should be glad for that.

But the longer he stares at the mirror, the thought digs deeper into him: he’s looking at a stranger.

The execution, it was the only time he held a gun to someone like that, the only time such ferocity emerged from him in the form of judge, jury, and executioner. He had no doubt then the civilian had been intentionally struck down, for what reason was unknown, but despite the words he had said then, he wonders if his own actions were justified.

“God will judge me for my actions when my time comes, and I will take punishment in any form He wishes.”

Then the artilleryman. A face all too clear, a face that when he looks back or sees in his sleep, is replaced with his own. The face of someone whose death bought them only a few precious seconds of time, a face who haunts his nightmares.

The creaking door distracts him enough to turn his head.

The injured gamine stands in the frame, her arm in a sling to prevent stress on the area of her shoulder where she’d been struck by a bullet. She was lucky to have survived, for had the bullet struck her just a few more inches to her chest, she would be dead.

“Heard you up about. Thought I’d check in.”

“You should be in bed, Thenardier,” he tells her, his head gesturing towards her room.

“Speak for yourself,” Eponine argues, walking towards him. “Resting doesn’t suit me. Neither does it with you.”

She stands beside him, looking at him and tilting her head. She turns to glance at the mirror, then back at him.

“You’ve no need to do that, you know.” She moves to put herself between him and the mirror. “There’s no need to remember yourself in this state, especially with what good that’s to come with the barricades left behind.”

“My appearance is not what concerns me,” he replies, his narrowed eyes staring past her. “I cannot stand my own reflection. I do not recognize myself.”

She nods in understanding. “Then why bother trying to see? And to continue to look anyway?”

A pause.

“Are you looking for your past self?” she asks. “You won’t find it there; the barricades changed us all too much. Let’s sit; standing can’t be good for you anyway.”

She motions towards the bed, waiting for him to sit before she does. It takes a moment for him to do so, trying not to think of the pain in his leg; any wrong movement could cause him to cry out or tear the stitches again. Then, she sits beside him.


	6. Bring him back! Please!”/Dark Battlefield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from bisexual-eponine: "Bring him back! Please!”/Dark Battlefield

The streets have been silent all night. Dawn is near in coming, but darkness still covers them.

Eponine sits outside the door of the candlelit Musain, her fingers tapping on a wooden crate. Her other hand sits just over her abdomen, and she tries not to think what could be happening behind that door.

Those moments flashed by too fast. Marius climbing the peak of the barricade, not seeing the gun pointed at him. Her scrambling to point it away from him, only for Enjolras to reach it first. Combeferre’s warning of “Snipers! On the roof!” Too many bullets flying about, possibly too many for any others to hear the warning, but two gunshots ring out the loudest.

Enjolras did not move the gun away from himself fast enough, nor did he duck at Combeferre’s words.

She was helpless to watch as the leader in red fell to the cobblestones. How many of the men saw, she isn’t certain, only they kept on fighting until the Guardsmen retreated.

By then, she was already at his side.

His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow, but that did not distract her from the growing spot of red near his shoulder, ignoring the sniper’s bullet that had, thankfully, struck him in the leg. She so easily could be him, should have been.

Her hair fell into her face, her cap lost amidst the chaos. Joly had joined her side, moving quickly to access the injuries, then to gesture to some of the other men to rush him into the Musain.

She rose to her feet to follow, but Combeferre turned to her to stop her from entering.

“I will not let you in there, you should not see this.”

“Dammit if I’m there!” She had stepped to move around him, but he mirrors her.

“I understand why you want to be there, but having too many people in there is not the best thing right now, if Joly’s able to save him.”

If. _If_. The word stabbed her in the chest.

“What would be best for you now is to sit and pray, and not just for him,” Combeferre continued, sounding harsher than she’s sure he intended. He glanced inside and had started to head in, but she reached and grabbed the fabric at the shoulder of his waistcoat.

“Bring Enjolras back. Please!” She looked him straight in the eye, not hiding the tears she had streaming down her face.

A nod of acknowledgement, and she had let him disappear.

She watches as Feuilly emerges from the summit of the barricade’s silhouette, returning from his reconnaissance. His features are grim, and she’s unsettled by the fact almost as much as the possibilities of what is happening behind the door. The men he speaks to shake their heads.

Dawn has just begun. The door at last opens, Combeferre appearing, dark circles under his eyes.

“For now, he’s alive. As long as the wounds do not become infected, he should recover.”

She smiles.

Then Feuilly approaches, and she finally hears the message he’s been saying since his return.

“We’re the only ones left.”


	7. “I’m glad you trust me.”/Bedroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from a Nonny on Tumblr: “I’m glad you trust me.”/Bedroom
> 
> Possibly set in the same universe as the "Rain and Ashes" series.

Eponine looks out into the city streets below. Everything goes on as it should, as if nothing is wrong with the world. Oblivious to the world of terror a portion of the country faces, too far a distance to bother themselves with such a thought.

And she’s gone unnoticed. And so has Enjolras.

She glances at the sleeping man in the bed, layers of bandages wrapped around his hands, and even more hidden by his shirt and the thin blanket. She’ll have to change them when he wakes.

She thinks back to the day where he had been returned to the barricade covered in blood and ash, unconscious. Some of his clothes had burned away, while other pieces had to be pried off his skin. Oh, and the screams…How did Joly and Combeferre manage to help him despite seeing their friend in such agony after such trauma?

 _‘He’s lucky they weren’t any worse,”_ Joly had said. _“He’ll probably have scarring all his left arm due to the severity of the burns, but he’s fortunate enough not to remember much of what happened; I don’t think he’d recover if he did.”_

Lucky. Fortunate. The words sting like a papercut. As if being alive with the struggles and harm they’ve faced makes them that.

He never before appeared so vulnerable.

He stirs in the bed, and his face contorts, aware of the broken ribs in his chest. His eyes flicker open, and he hisses through his teeth. She gets up from her seat and reaches for the bottle of painkillers Joly had scrambled to find and the spoon on the nightstand, but Enjolras raises his hand.

“I don’t need them, not now, at least,” he says, taking care as he sits up. “How long have I been out?”

“A few hours,” she replies. “Nothing to concern yourself over.”

He nods. He looks down, flexing his left hand. The moments are slow, awkward, as if the concept of any hand at all is a new feeling for him. She wonders if he’s thinking about the damage underneath, of the imperfections the will remain for years after the bandages are removed.

As far as she has observed in the few months she has known him, he hasn’t been one to worry over appearances. She knows of a scar right along his hairline from when he was grazed by a bullet about a month before the burns; it’s noticeable when the wind blows the hair out of his face. There’s another jagged scar that runs down his chin and across his throat, and she only noticed it the other day while changing the bandages; she guesses it’s from childhood, with how faded it is.

Those are small and cut-like, though. Not easily found at a glance. If the burns on his arm scar as Joly says they will, even with long sleeves they’ll be noticeable at first sight.

She moves the small basket of fresh bandages on the floor and sets it on the bed as she sits down. Enjolras rolls up the sleeve out of routine, and watches as she begins to undo the old bandages around the palm of his hand.

“Another few weeks, I think,” she says, trying to be gentle as a portion of the old bandage sticks.

She receives a curt nod in reply, his gaze distant.

She glances up from her work. “I’m glad you trust me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

She shrugs. “I haven’t known you that long, and coming from my circumstances, there’s very few people who would.”

“You’ve never given me a reason not to trust you,” he says, eyes focusing on her. “I would assume if you wanted me dead, you would have done it by now.”

“A safe thought.”

His faint smile quickly fades. “That, and for the foreseeable future, we only have each other. Not just in…physical presence, but in what we’ve been through as well.”

She pauses.

“We survived, we should be grateful for that, regardless of the damage it’s done to us both,” he continues. “I think there’s comfort in that, knowing someone close by has shared a similar experience.”

“I guess so.” She drops the old bandages to the floor, trying to return the focus on her work without the sting of tears in her eyes. She notices a different look in his eyes, one she cannot place a name to.

“I hope you trust me, too,” he says, “despite all the wrong that’s happened not just to you, but the ones you knew, too.”

She offers a faint smile. “If I didn’t, would I be here?”

He reaches for her hand, their fingers intertwining. “Remember you can talk to me, alright? It won’t do either of us good if we try to keep it all in.”

She takes a deep breath, and nods.


	8. All Tangled Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from bisexual-eponine: "we, the blankets and the pet have tangled into an irreversible knot on the couch and if no one comes save us this might be our end" for enjonine because i'm soft for enjonine + pet(s) 🥴

Eponine wakes to the low volume of the television and the hum of the fridge from the kitchen. The living room is covered in shadows, the sun not yet coming over the horizon. The freshly fallen snow reflects a dark blue against its glittering white on the windowsill. She turns her head to find her husband still fast asleep, blond curls all in a disarray as they are every morning (not that combing through them does much to tame them), arm draped over her stomach protectively.

“Too soon to be guessing,” she murmurs to herself, readying to stretch her legs that have intertwined with Enjolras’ to realize there’s a lump on top of the blanket.

She manages to sit up enough to make out not just one, but two furry shapes looking at her, disgruntled by the disturbance of their slumber. Libby, their fluffy brown tabby, takes a big yawn before laying her head back down, while Max, all gray and owl-eyed, stares at her.

“What?” she whispers, and Max’s eyes search around for a moment, trying to figure out if he wants to get up and move within arm’s reach to be petted, or to go back to sleep like his sister. It takes a few moments, but he, too, decides he’d rather go back to sleep.

And now she’s stuck.

She could definitely get up were it just Enjolras there, taking care to move his arm and untangle their legs, but with their two cats sleeping in the small nest their intertwined limbs created, that was pretty much impossible; after all, it’s an unspoken rule that you can’t move until the cats move. Even if she were to try, Max would start attacking her feet as if it were prey and Libby would just sit there and pretend nothing was happening.

So she resigns herself to lay there until the opportunity presents itself, even if it leads her to go back to sleep for a little while. At least neither of them have any plans for the day.

She’s near to the numbness of sleep when Enjolras stirs behind her, letting out a short groan as he stretches his arms.

“Sleep well?” she murmurs, turning her head to face him.

“As well as one can on a cramped couch,” he replies with a yawn. He props himself up a bit, looking towards the other end of the couch. “How long have they been there?”

“Too long,” she replies. “My legs are stiff, but I’m not chancing an attack to move them.”

“Mhm.” He lays back down, and sighs. “Well, I suppose breakfast will have to wait until they move, then.”

“Hopefully we won’t starve by that point.”


	9. I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from bisexual-eponine: “I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you.”

It’s the same-old dance to her: meet someone funny, someone who’s cute, go out on date with them, steal a kiss or two depending on how things went, maybe go further, and then maybe a phone call. Sometimes there’s a couple more dates, but nothing lasts.

They’re nothing special, anyway, the men and women she finds. She might find someone who sets a spark now and again, but it never spreads to burning flames.

Then, there’s him, who’s been at her side through the majority of them.

“Just friends,” she says to those who mistake them for a couple. “Nothing more.”

Which is funny, considering she’s seen him as something that could be more than that for a while now.

(She, of course, misses his stolen glances. She doesn’t see that look in his eyes most spend years searching for.)

As friends sometimes do, they bicker. In this particular circumstance, it’s over something petty, over the weather report. Both of them had heard different things. Bright sunshine, he heard. Cold, wet, and rainy, she heard.

Eponine second guesses herself, that what she heard may have been for later in the week. They make plans to walk to the park, just because and they both have the day off.

They saw the clouds, of course, but chose to ignore them. Halfway there, it starts to downpour.

“Thanks a lot, idiot!” she shouts at him on the sidewalk. “‘Bright sunshine.’ Does this look like ‘bright sunshine’ to you?!”

“My mistake.” Enjolras raises his hands in defense.

“We’re soaked!”

“And arguing during a downpour isn’t going to solve that,” he replies. “Look, there’s a café just around the corner. We can just grab something to eat while we wait this out.”

“Yes, because I love going into coffee shops looking like a drowned rat!”

“I don’t see any other options. I could walk you back to your place and I’ll take a cab home, or something along those lines.”

“That sounds delightful,” she says with sarcasm, then turns around to head back.

He follows her. “I’m sorry about this. Had I known I would have suggested we stay put or bring an umbrella.”

“I would have worn a coat, at least,” she grumbles, shivering from the rain. This would be the moment he would offer her his, but he has none to offer.

So they walk.

“How about this: next time, we check the weather reports on our phones the day of?” he says, breaking the silence halfway back.

“Smart suggestion. Why didn’t I think of that?” she says sarcastically.

“I get it, I was wrong.” His voice is laced with defeat. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugs a shoulder.

(If she had turned her head then, she may have caught the affectionate look in his eyes, despite the disappointment of the day.)

She won’t stay mad at him, has no meaning too, isn’t quite mad at him to begin with. Frustrated with the past, her failures…somehow this mix up with the weather is acting as the feather that broke the camel’s back.

“Is there something else going on?” he asks, pausing in his step.

“Everything’s fine,” she replies, arms crossed. “Now let’s go; I want to get out of soaked clothes.”

“Are you all right?” He’s facing her, eyes searching hers in concern, peering behind the frustration and the denial she’d rather have remain hidden. “Nancy’s breaking up with you, is that still bothering you?”

She rolls her eyes. “That was months ago; I’m over it.”

He purses his lips, glancing to the side and then back at her. “Okay.”

They take a few more steps forward, then she’s the one who stops. She takes a deep breath.

“Alright, fine, so it does have something to do with Nancy, but it also has to do with Christine and Cosette and Marius and Montparnasse, among others,” she says, turning to look at him. “It’s because through all of them, it wasn’t them I was thinking about.”

“Pardon?” His eyebrows furrow.

“You know my habits. You know of the bars and one-night-stands.” She takes a few steps back, not being able to handle the closeness of him at the present. “I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you.”

And his eyes go wide at the admission.

She curses herself, because she’s certain she’s just ruined this friendship they had. Screwed it over completely. When she looks up to turn to him, to meet his eyes, he’s smiling. And it’s different than any she’s seen on him before.

“Eponine…” he walks toward her, one hand taking hers, the other resting on her cheek.

Here it comes, the rejection.

“You’ve admitted something I have been looking to tell you for years,” he says.

Her turn for her eyes to widen. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you the same for a long time, but could never find the right words.”

She stares at him for a moment, wanting to think she’s imagining things, that she did not just hear those words from his mouth. This reciprocation of emotions, there’s no way…

“May I kiss you?” he asks as the rain pours down harder.

She’s breathless. “Yes.”


	10. I won't lose you too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from bisexual-eponine: “I won't lose you too.”
> 
> (This almost got a lot darker than it did.)

Eponine takes a deep breath, staring at the cold, freezing waters of the Seine, ripples reflecting silver in the moonlight. She draws her coat into herself, arms folded across her chest, the wintry air brushing her cheeks.

It’s been over a year and a half since the barricades’ fall, and the events of those two harsh days still remain in her mind that the thought of them brings ice in her veins. She flexes her gloved left hand, the joints stiff from the chill, the injuries sustained there having not healed all right. Nothing more than the wound on her chest seems to have healed properly, though she doubts the skin there will ever return to its normal color.

She’s breathing, she’s alive, when so many she knew had their breaths stolen from them that day, her brother among them.

He was only a child. What was justifiable is killing a child?

Her hand drifts over to the slight bump of her abdomen, glancing up at the sky, and she closes her eyes. May her child never see such horrors, never encounter such a fate.

“Eponine!”

She turns to see her husband approaching her in hurried strides, face pale and his blond hair falling into his face from being hastily pulled back.

“I’m all right,” she tells him when he reaches her. “I needed to get some air and didn’t want to wake you; I’d think you’d be used to my wanderings by now.”

The harsh expression on Enjolras’ face softens. “I still worry; I won’t lose you, too.”

“You won’t lose me,” she replies, her hand brushing a few strands of hair from his face. Those two days, they haunt him, too; she’s seen the nights where he’s restless, cold sweat on his brow as the nightmares seize him. “We’ve made through the worst of it, after all.”

“Indeed.” A corner of his lip upturns, and his eyes flicker to the river below and then to darkness above, then meeting hers. “Are you willing to come in from the cold just yet?”

She nods, then takes his arm. “I think a bit of warmth could do us both some good.”


End file.
